Happy 98th Anniversary Ruby & Ganny!

From The Annals of Sandy Spring, Volume V, 1929-1947, edited by Herbert Osburn Stabler, published by American Publishing Co., copyright 1950, p. 181:  On June 7th [1940], the Brigham children gave Reuben and Marjorie a reception in honor of their 25th anniversary.

Polaroid album

My mother gave me a little red Polaroid album a while back, and I have finally gotten around to scanning the pictures. The photos begin with Thanksgiving and Christmas at Foxley, then a trip to the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, and finally Easter photos in the front yard at Foxley. Polaroids were certainly fun and convenient--but they don't have a date printed on the back of them like processed film. I know that the Polaroid Swinger camera was produced between 1965 and 1970. The photos are certainly from that era. Julie and Rich were married in 1967, and they appear together here, possibly in their first home in one. Ganny died in July 1970, and Doc Bussler died in 1972. Do you see Anna Bussler in any of the pictures?--she died in October 1967. I'm going to do my best to identify everyone below the photos, but please help me if you know who is in the pictures and when they were taken. Thanks!



Thanksgiving at Gladys and Dave's home Foxley. Around the table clockwise: Young Dave's eyeglasses and nose (my father), Rich, Julie, an unknown man whose hands are in the picture, Dottie, Vernon, at the head of the table is Gladys (my grandmother), unknown young lady, Ganny (my great-grandmother), the top of Pat's head, unknown young lady with dark hair, Liz in white sweater holding food (my mother), and unknown young lady with blonde hair. One of the unidentified young ladies is probably Dottie's daughter Anita.



Thanksgiving at Foxley, around the table clockwise: Ganny (my great-grandmother), Pat , unknown young lady with dark hair, Liz (my mother), unknown young lady with blonde hair, at the head of the table again is Gladys (my grandmother), Dave (my father), Rich, Julie, unknown man, Dottie, and Vernon Swiger.



My grandmother's sister Dorothy Beall Swiger. This is the dining room at Foxley on Thanksgiving.



Christmas at Foxley: Dave unwrapping an aquarium set (my father), Gladys cleaning her glasses (my grandmother), and Ganny (my great-grandmother).



Julie next to the Christmas tree. This does not look like Foxley--maybe it was taken at her new home with Rich.





It looks like my grandparents went to see the Liberty Bell with Julie and Rich. The first photo shows the backs of heads: stranger, Rich, and Julie. The second shows Gladys in a fur coat, the Liberty Bell, Rich, and Julie. This is perhaps the fur coat my grandfather gave her as a Christmas gift one year, wrapped in a garbage bag.





Always collies at Foxley. This little one appears prominently in the Easter photos, too.



Dave (my grandfather) snoozing in a wingback in his stocking feet.



The bow tie is a dead giveaway: this is Doc Bussler.





Easter at Foxley, clockwise starting at the top: Rich, Julie, Young Dave, Gladys, and Pat.



Easter at Foxley, clockwise starting at the top: Rich, Julie, Pat, Gladys, and Big Dave.

Behold Your Son

This was a sermon for the Easter season written and delivered by David A. Brigham (my father) sometime between 2000-2002.

BEHOLD YOUR SON
David A. Brigham

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdelene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, 'Dear woman, here is your son,' and to the disciple, 'Here is your mother.' From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.

"Mom, can I go out and play now?"

"No, Jesus, you promised me you'd do your school work before you went outside."

"Mom, Mom, can I have a piece of fruit?"

"No, Jesus, that fruit is for our dinner and besides, you promised you'd sweep your Father's workshop before dinner."

It's not easy to imagine those types of real life scenes playing out in the life of Jesus and his mother. Did you ever stop to think about Jesus the Christ having those kinds of talks with "Mom"? Isn't it hard to picture the real Jesus as a child, as a teenager? Isn't it hard to see Him in real life episodes,in family settings, in conflict and uncertainty? Isn't it hard to think about the daily dialogue he had with his mother and father, his siblings, his friends?

After all, this is the Savior, the Messiah, the Son of God!

But the essence of our faith is that God gave his Son to this life for us--subjecting Him to the real world, and all its relationships, all its reality, all its ups and downs, all its pain.

The story of Jesus begins with his mother. Through Mary, the mother, we come to understand Jesus--the loving child, the dedicated son. The gospel story finds the real life Mary, not a story book figure, there for her Son, from childbirth in a stable, to death on a cross, and the incredible joy of resurrection. Loving always, faithful always--Mary was there, always.

Not every mother and son relationship is perfect. Some are failures. Occasionally we hear of a mother who abandons or mistreats a child, or cares little for her children. But this is rare. A mother's love is, generally, an extraordinary thing--and there is undoubtedly as special bond between mother and son.

I have always been very close to my own Mother. But I never understood the powerful bond of Mother and Son so clearly until I hear my own Dad's last words to me as he prepared for death's passage. Those last words: "Take care of Mom."

I was prepared to do that anyway. After all my Mother and I were close; I was the oldest living child; and I was her neighbor. But, at that moment, my obligation to her become so real, so personal, so spiritual. The Father passed the care of the Mother to the Son. "Take care of Mom."

Mary, the loving Mother, supported her Son throughout his life, and suffered unmercifully at his death. We can hardly imaging the physical pain of the crucifixion. Equally, there is no way to know the pain of heart which Mary felt as she stood at the foot of the cross and saw her Son.

Jesus, the loving Son, felt the special bond between Mother and Son, never waivered in his respect and compassion for Mary, and reached out to her at his death, seeking to make sure that she was cared for emotionally and materially. He gave her care over to others and acknowledged her special place in the history of the Christian faith.

This was Mary, the mother of God's Son. What an exalted title! This was Mary, the loving mother of Jesus. What an exalted role! "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear... Blessed is she who has believed what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!"

There is no doubt that Mary was a tower of strength for all around her. There is no doubt that she knew exactly the role that Jesus would have to fulfill. There is no doubt that she loved him as deeply as any mother could ever love a son, and more.

Washington Irving captured Mary and all who would be like her when he wrote, "There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affection of the heart! It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment, she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity--and if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune...and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him."

Equally, while Jesus would preach the importance of putting God's work above even our family, no son ever loved a mother more than he loved Mary. She was a constant in his life. She was there for him. He was there for her.

The words at the cross are so few. We are left trying to imagine what it was all really like, to sense the overwhelming tragedy, to wonder how it could possibly be. In Jesus' few words, though, he speaks volumes.

As Mary stands at the foot of the cross looking up at her son, I think she is saying this: "Jesus, my Son, I love you dearly. I cannot bear to see you suffer like this. If I could, I would take your place right now. I have loved you since the moment God place you in my womb. I have understood my special role and responsibility. I know you are the Messiah. I can't understand why all this is happening. My heart is breaking. But I will never stop loving you."

Jesus hangs on the nails that pierce his hands. He can hardly speak, but he looks down and sees his mother. I believe he is saying to all of us: "My beloved friends, no matter what happens, we must love each other and take care of each other. I'm sorry you have to see me in such pain, an sorry this all has to happen this way. But it does! I ask you to look after my mother. I ask all of you to help your mothers and fathers and friends, to have special care for the elderly and the infirm, to reach out and lend a hand, to feed others spiritually and physically. I love you."

Jesus left us a sermon, a hundred sermons, a thousand sermons, in just a few words.

On Calvary, Jesus gave his mother over to the care of his friends, and gave all people in need over to the care of others. Her strength and her example help us to come to God, just as God came to us through her.

Notwithstanding the torture and pain, there is time and ability to take care of things that matter, to tie up the loose ends, to look after others, to pour out a heart, to show unending love...

"Take care of Mom."

October/November 1971

Some wag has said, "For God so loved the world that He did not send a committee." Another has dealth with the peculiar construction of the camel and expressed the conviction this was a horse designed by a committee.

The great American game has become service on committees. If we want something lost in the shuffle, buried and forgotten, with only a little backwash, we turn it over to a committee. If we want others to share responsibility in the decision or a criticism, we spread the base by assigning a committee to take the matter under advisement.

Conversely, we can focus the best talent and dedication on a worthy objective by carefully selecting those who will relate to all the angles and come in with the answer.

Don't frighten and frustrate yourself by thinking out the number of hours in each month you spend on committees, sub-committees, and committee related activities. When someone calls or taps you on the shoulder and says, "Will you serve on the committee to...," is the your mouth always set to say YES?

Is you family proud of your committee involvement? Do they ever see you at home? Are they just as glad it is this way? Or, are they constantly upset and nagging because you are never home.

There is always a reason for dealing with a subject. The trigger which fired this shot was a mention of the hours and hours given by individuals serving as committee members in the interest of the League of Federal Recreation Associations, all 62 of the agency members, and the 150,000 individual federal employees who are known as participants.

Committee members are always subject to the judgement of those who do not like the conclusions, wish they had been asked to serve, or who know they could have done a better job. So, who can you please and why do you agree to serve? Probably it's because you care, you have pride, and you know that someone must do or nothing is done.

Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "A man should share the action and passion of his times at the peril of being judged not to have lived." Each generation has an obligation to make whatever sacrifices are necessary to preserve the great privileges which were given us.

We now know that a Constitution to be followed must first be written, a Prayer to be answered must be given, and to be gained Membership must first be sought.

Now you have the inspiration and you are ready to reach out for your challenge and opportunity. You want to serve on a committee.

Fine, we have just the spot for you. To be successful as a committee member, you must be a man of vision and ambition: a diplomat, after-dinner speaker, after-dinner guzzler and a night-owl.

You must continue to work all day, take phone calls all night, and be on the job next morning early.

Oh yes, you must be able to please all organizations and auxiliaries. You must be both a Democrat and a Republican, be a man's man and a ladies man, a model husband and father, a devoted son-in-law, a good provider, psychiatrist, manager, and magician.

You must attend all meetings, tournaments, union sessions, funerals and visit jails, hospitals and credit unions. In you spare time you will be expected to review the constitution, by-laws and organizations structure of LFRA.

When you have related to your committee assignment, given it the best you have, there will be those whose soft tones will credit you with sincerity of purpose. Your loyalty will be cited and friends will recognize that some pretty ordinary persons have become very substantial leaders because you had the uncanny ability to get teamwork out of the group.

But you are not unique. There have been many committeemen. Historically, each one has been caught up in the ageless pattern of freedom, which is always revolutionary. Freedom is always alive, marching on many fronts... The ferment of freedom never ends.

David L. Brigham
Committeeman Extraordinary

September 1971

The Water Witch was novel to some who reviewed this spot last month. It caught Jim's eye and he traced the Executive Witch to his den. If you don't believe in coincidence you can hop off right here.

It all began back in Iowa. A young Maryland lad had just gone to the tall corn State to do some broadcasting, some news reporting and some public relations. He wound up with the old AAA (Agricultural Adjustment Administration) and met Jim of the AP (Associated Press). Who could forget the battered felt hat, the crisp verbiage and the urgency of effort fostered by hungry days as a stringer and cub reporter. We related like a magnet and he was soon with USDA and AAA also.

Both boys moved from Iowa at the request of Uncle Sam. One found a home in Missouri and the other in Minnesota. They kept in close touch and crossed paths with some frequency. Then came the big events. Two baby girls arrived within days of each other. Both struggled for life and lost. The two families were drawn even closer together.

The surprise was a little understandable when the two wives compared notes. Yes, indeed they were. So within a few weeks of each other a couple of young men saw the light of day. They were worth waiting for! Within ten days of the even the Missouri Dad was heading for infantry service in World War II. Before leaving he called Jim to tell him of the "Greeting from the President."

You guessed it... Jim had just enlisted in the Seabees. Both wound up in the Pacific until it was over there. And who do you think made it home fro Christmas in 1945? Both did!

Next the Christmas card from Jim to Dave in 1946. Mine's due in April, when's yours? A hurry up reply informed Jim the other arrival had been scheduled for May. And so the two girls began their almost joint journey.

No one would expect you to believe there was a girl apiece the following summer. There were other similarities like the wives being sick at the same time and the work changes which sent both to the Washington area a few days apart. Then, as the years and activities have a way of doing such relationships in, the two families lost contact.

There was a call last week. Jim wanted to speak to Dave. He had read a column in a thing called the Recreation Register. It was about a witch or something. Was this the same Dave? Well... Well, if it is... Well, Jim, how old is your Grandson? Well, how did you know I only had one grandchild and it is a boy? Well, that's easy. I have a grandson myself and my oldest daughter is the Mother... Same with you I'm sure? Exactly the same!

It was country talk about finding water and digging a well that brought us back together. We began our renewed visit with well... And when he asked something about LFRA and my interest in the future of this association of and for federal employees, it was easy to use the same thought collecting delay, well...

I had to begin with the deep well of despair some of us have battled hard to overcome. There was the shortage of interest, the limited funding and the primary responsibility of willing horses to their own agency associations rather than to an overall League.

It made you feel like the frog in the bottom of the well who thought the entire world was the patch of sky he could see when he looked up. We didn't get the full view and begin to realize the potential until we looked over the top edge of the well.

Then, there was a the bucket of cream lowered par way down into the well to keep cool. Two frogs fell in. One pushed the panic button, folded up and sank to the bottom. The other kicked, scrambled and struggled. He churned the cream, created a pat of butter, hopped upon it, gave a great leap from this floating perch and escaped the well.

Is there any word we use more? This is the most convenient and versatile of the four-letter words. How do we begin when the boss says, "Why haven't you...?" Perhaps the wife would like to know what kept you at the office? Or, the preacher why you missed services? What's the reason payment is a little slow this month? Did you get a check-up? There's a problem with your kid and we'd like to know... The first thing to come to mind as we stall for the answer to meet the situation is WELL... Well eh!

There was Jacob's Well..the Well of Bethlehem, Abraham, Issac and the "well of living water." There is the Artesian well form which water flows of its own pressure. Some are purported to go to the well once too often and find only disappointment.

There are tales of those who bought an interest in a dry well. Others invested in prospecting for a productive oil well. Some made it with a well and some lost it. There's been many sunk in or drawn from a well.

Well, how are you feeling? Well, I hope!

There are other "wells" like Fargo and Wellington and wellsweep, wellbeing, well meaning, welldoer, welldisposed, well born, and well head. The last supplies water to a spring or well and the flow begins the circuit.

Why dwell upon the well? Jim started it and I want to tell him why I pursued it. You see, even before we heard of each other, I found the right girl and gave her a ring. She ran through the big farm house to the back porch where her Dad was taking off his boots. The skinny college lad followed...at a most reasonable distance.

"Look Daddy, look!" I guess he saw the little diamond. The response drifted back into the kitchen, "My Lord child, that boy's not dry behind the ears yet!"

Then you know who came on the scene and gulped..."Well...Sir...ah...eh...mmmm...."

And the 230 pound, six foot plus recognition followed:

"WELL...That's a deep subject when you get to the bottom of it."

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

August 1971

They were both big men and the muscles vibrated in the forearms above the clublike hands. One had just called the other a water witch and I backed up to the honeysuckled fence row. A boy didn't belong too close at that moment.

A kid raised in the country learns some words the city kids never hear. A clodhopper or just a plain clod; a briar jumper or a hick; a hawg jaw or an apple knocker; a slew foot or a hay seed. I knew 'em all and could take each one from the bigger kids who had walked a furrow or jumped a black berry patch while chasing a rabbit. It was routine to slop the pigs and easy to use a long stick to shake the apples off the tree.

You don't mind being a hay seed when you have mowed, raked, loaded, forked and worked hay into the mow of the old barracks. Still fresh in memory are the wheat shocks, the pitch forks, the bundles pitched up to the top of the wagon, and the "first and last snake" tossed up with the last bundle. Tass Carter sailed off that topped out load and was running before he hit the ground. He said something about k-k-killin' the next boy who did that trick. But, he was kidding, or was he?

Anyway, this was country talk and farm boys understood. There was always work and time for fun. The oversized, old felt hat was a trademark. The ever present hound could handle the rabbits, quail, squirrels and even a skunk. The collie brought the cows in for milking and there was always a horse to ride or work as the occasion might demand. There was no real need for parks, golf courses, organized recreation, and planned activities by associations and organizations.

Most of us lived in the country and knew what those folks who drove out to see us on Sunday were called. We whispered about city-slickers with fancy suits and tourin' cars. They needed watching a little but they didn't have the real smarts a county kid comes by kinda natural.

We showed 'em the birds and bees and the stock and the chickens. What was the use of talking about things you lived with every day of your life. If they were half-way with us, we steered them around poison ivy, beggars lice, sumac and chuckle burrs.

It was fun to try the young fellow from town our on corn silk, Indian cigars, grape vine and Brown's Mule. Smokin' and chewin' was all the same, they got white, wobbly and then sick to the stomach. That was good clean fun and recreation the old way. We didn't mean no harm by it and they had something to talk about when they got back to the city.

I guess they talked about Dad rollin' his own and the checked dress Mom had made from some feed sack goods. We got in our licks about the patent leather shoes, the striped pants and the starched collars.

But all of us enjoyed the coming and the going. Those city words that identified a nationality and degraded many first generation Americans were lost on our untrained ears. It was better that way. We walked the country roads and they walked the city streets.

Once in a while the youngsters were afraid of the dark and needed some reassurance. But there was always someone to make you feel safe and not much happened to make newspaper headlines. I guess it happened some but when you have a piece of hay in the corner of your mouth and whistle up your dog a fellow feels mighty comfortable and secure.

So I watched the two big men. You don't call a man a Water Witch, even in the country and get by with it. There had to be the inevitable collision.

The one stood sort of sizing up the antagonist and then fondled the forked peach stick. It looked sort of like a sling shot without the leather cup and rubber innertube strips. I thought of David and Goliath. Perhaps history would repeat. Then the startling first words, "It's a gift, sort of like extrasensory perception."

The forked stick is held in both hands with the bottom of the Y pointed upward. It is known as a Divining Rod and when the gifted carrier walks over a good stream of water the stick turns over and points to the water. Next the "witch" takes a limber twig and holds it over the spot selected by the peach stick.

Like a pump handle the twig dips down and then comes back to the starting position. Each circuit indicates 10 feet and if it bows 8 times you must go 80 feet to strike water. At the end of the measurement the twig will shake sideways before staring over again.

Fantastic? Perhaps it is. But, this same man told me where to drill and that I would need to go down 128 feet to strike water. I believed and hit at 126 feet. We have good water in a country well and if you understand the meaning of the title even a Water Witch can be a mighty regular guy.

If some of my city colleagues feel like being a LFRA Witch, we'll let them use a Diving Rod to find discounts, travel opportunity, recreation and more members. Success is fun!

David L. Brigham
Executive Witch

July 1971

It was June and a beautiful afternoon as I slipped across the parking lot apparently unseen. Then came the well recognized voice of the Duty Guard. "Watch that cuttin' out early and leaving the rest of us to carry on!"

This meant a little slow-down and a valued minute or two of conversation and rich, homey philosophy. You can't beat it for relaxing frayed nerves, cutting life into focus.

He didn't know I was about to spend some money I didn't really have. Some things are essential even if you are scratching for the change it takes to accomplish the responsibility. That's why I was wishing for the new LFRA Buyers Guide, wondering where I could find the best price for something appropriate, and asking myself why money seemed so hard to come by.

So it's June and we began our "expert" conversation with that fact; after we had covered the weather. June is the month when we spend more money for gifts than any other except December. There are the many graduations and weddings by the dozen. Those bright eyed girls are experts at removing ribbons and seals and colorful wrapping from multi-shaped packages. The guys just look dumbfounded, ill at ease or like the floor should separate and make room for them in the basement.

Then there is Father's Day and more is spent on the old guy than the family release to make Mother's Day perfect for the best. It isn't that we think more of Dad, he just costs more to buy for. Mom likes the blouse, stockings, perfume, some costume jewelry and a pretty card with the right words.

But Dad is something else...a shirt and tie perhaps, something for libation purposes, golf togs or equipment, possibly a rod and reel, or a box of cigars. It costs to keep Dad and it costs more to find a card that will tell the truth about him than it does to shower love on Mom.

I reached down in the pocket which had been worn through by change and car keys. Nothing there! The other side held the reassuring feel of soft leather over three or four dollars. How was that going to guy a graduation present today?

It was easy to drop the question and start with the days when we had even less in our pockets, if we had pockets at all. June was that great month when you kissed school goodbye for a few weeks and headed for the Patuxent River. There were mud slides, tadpoles, dragon flies, snapping turtles, box turtles, frogs, eels, sun perch, catfish, craw dads, black snakes, a raft and rapids, land nettles on bare legs and the buzz of a mosquito.

The home cut poplar pole, an earthworm, hook, sinker, some green line and a cork from the vinegar jug did the trick for the young fisherman. If they didn't bite there was always skinny dippin in the deep hole, until the neighbors came around the bend in a canoe very much unannounced.

How about the heavy rains and the river jumping the banks, coming across the marsh and right up to the mouth of the pup tent placed on the knoll just off the woods road. We answered that one by jumping in the main current at Mink Hollow and flying downstream to Snells Bridge. Over and over this thrill was repeated and nobody was lost in the flood or snagged by an under the water tree limb. The blankets got wet and moldy, dry wood was hard to come by, and the oil off the top of a jar of peanut butter served as lubricant for the pancake griddle.

This was the same river, still a little muddy, and it was June 1971. The Guard had wanted me to tell him about our neighborhood minister and the river.

There had been a confirmation class for 10 teen age youngsters. They learned about baptism and were given a choice. The unanimous decision for kids whose parent had been sprinkled some years before was immersion. Now the choice was where it would be done. The prompt verdict was the Patuxent River behind Dave Brigham's place. Shades of the Jordan and a man named John.

It had rained and the banks were muddy, right where the old slide used to be. The minister walked out in his good shoes and suit, waist deep in the center stream. Parents and friends sang "Shall We Gather At The River" and one by one the white robed ten made their sometimes shaky way to a memorable experience and a new hope. Once safely back on shore, a fellow who had not been as unsure as the rest peeled off his robe to reveal a T-shirt bearing the inscription "Aqua Club - Expert Swimmer."

So, it is June and I am in the parking lot going to buy a graduation present. The Guard waned to know if it was high school or college. He was coming out next year from high school. I told him this was a college graduate in nursing, the third to finish the University. My three were all out of the nest and going along. That's why I was ducking out early to get a present for the last one. It was June I told him.

"My, my," he replied, "You must feel like the man that has gone and swum the river!"

Funny how a guy can put it so you just can't help but understand it. There is so much uphill in life and we struggle along. All of a sudden it is over, done, accomplished and completed. The old river that you fought so hard to swim has been conquered. Now you are on the other side. What's the next move?

Turn around and start back. You must cross again. Life is always a struggle and both Home and Success are on the other side.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Annals - Volume V

I am in the process of combing through The Annals of Sandy Spring for family history tidbits and started with Volume V, 1929-1947, edited by Herbert Osburn Stabler, published by American Publishing Co., copyright 1950. As always, I welcome corrections and additions. First I have pasted in a couple branches of family tree for your reference, followed by passages from the Annals. For convenience sake, I designated the generations by their relation to me. I have highlighted individuals mentioned in Vol. V of the Annals.

Third Great Grandparents

Lieutenant Nicholas N. SNOWDEN, son of Nicholas SNOWDEN and Elizabeth WARFIELD, b. 7 Apr 1828 at Montpelier in Laurel, MD, d. 6 Jun 1862, near Harrisonburg, VA, married 28 May 1850 at Philadephia, PA, Henrietta STABLER, daughter of William Henry STABLER and Eliza THOMAS, b. 27 Jan 1829, Sandy Spring, MD, d. 21 May 1907, Sandy Spring, MD
1. Emily Roseville SNOWDEN b. 7 Apr 1851, m. Gerard HOPKINS
2. Marion SNOWDEN b. 28 Jun 1853, d. 7 Jan 1857
3. Lucy SNOWDEN b. 13 Mar 1855, m1. ___ LEA, m2. William W. MOORE
4. Helen SNOWDEN b. 7 Apr 1857, m. Dr. Augustus STABLER
5. Francis SNOWDEN b. 19 Mar 1859, d. 11 Sept 1936, m. Fannie Brooke STABLER
6. Mary Thomas SNOWDEN b. 3 Jun 1861, d. 31 Dec 1932, m. Charles Dorsey WARFIELD

John STABLER, son of Thomas Pleasants STABLER and Elizabeth P. BROOKE, b. 13 Apr 1820, married 8 May 1851 Alice Ann BENTLEY, daughter of Joseph E. BENTLEY
1. Florence M. STABLER b. 24 Jun 1852, m. Charles M. BOND
2. Alice Evelyn STABLER b. 14 Aug 1854
3. Cora STABLER b. 6 Oct 1856
4. Anna B. STABLER b. 24 Feb 1859
5. Frances "Fannie" Brooke STABLER b. 25 Oct 1860, d. 25 Mar 1943, m. Francis SNOWDEN
6. Eliza Brooke STABLER b. 15 May 1863
7. John STABLER Jr. b. 15 Nov 1865
8. Alice Bentley STABLER b. 8 Jan 1868
9. Evangeline STABLER m. William H. GILPIN

Second Great Grandparents

Arthur Amber BRIGHAM, son of John Winslow BRIGHAM and Mary Rebecca PUTNAM, b. 6 Oct 1856, Marlboro, MA, d. 12 Nov 1938, Lakeland, FL, married 6 Oct 1881 Charlotte Warren BRIGHAM, daughter of Dennison BRIGHAM and Sarah WEEKS, b. 1857, Marlboro, MA, d. 1933
1. Reuben BRIGHAM b. 13 Dec 1887, d. 6 Dec 1946, m. Marjorie SNOWDEN
2. Ruth BRIGHAM b. 12 Sept 1892

Francis "Frank" SNOWDEN, son of Lt. Nicholas SNOWDEN and Henrietta STABLER, b. 19 Mar 1859, d. 11 Sept 1936, married 18 May 1886 Frances "Fannie" Brooke STABLER, daughter of John STABLER and Alice Ann BENTLEY, b. 15 Oct 1860, d. 25 Mar 1943
1. Elsie Brooke SNOWDEN b. 4 Mar 1887, d. 21 Dec 1945
2. Miriam SNOWDEN b. 15 Apr 1891, d. Nov 1950, m1. Samuel P. THOMAS, m2. James H. LAMPTON
3. Edward SNOWDEN b. 13 Dec 1893, m. Nellie KELLEY
4. Anna McFarland SNOWDEN b. 27 Jul 1896, m. Louis Theodore "Doc" BUSSLER
5. Marjorie SNOWDEN b. 1888, d. 1970, m. Reuben BRIGHAM

Great Grandparents

Reuben BRIGHAM, son of Arthur Amber BRIGHAM and Charlotte Warren BRIGHAM, b. 13 Dec 1887, Marlboro, MA, d. 6 Dec 1946, Chicago, IL, married 7 Jun 1915 at Ingleside in Sandy Spring, MD, Marjorie SNOWDEN, daughter of Frances SNOWDEN and Francis Brooke STABLER, b. 1888, d. 1970
1. David Lewis BRIGHAM b. 1916, d. Oct 1999, Olney, MD, m. 28 Dec 1938 Gladys BEALL b. 7 Oct 1915, d. 29 Dec 2008, Mt. Airy, MD
2. Francis Snowden BRIGHAM, deceased, m. Dorothy LEMON, deceased
3. Marjorie Amber BRIGHAM b. 22 Feb 1922, still living, m. 18 July 1944 Robert Whitney MILLER, deceased
4. Arthur Putnam BRIGHAM b. 1928, d. 22 Jan 1992, Bella Vista, AR, m. Helen CASE, still living

Excerpts from The Annals of Sandy Spring, Volume V, 1929-1947:

p. 16 - Sept. 15 [1930] a large number of people visited the unusual and beautiful detura plants of Elsie Snowden at Engleside [sic]. During the night of bloom two plants had 90 bell-shaped blooms, six inches in length and three inches in diameter, and very fragrant. There was also a night-blooming cereus with fourteen blooms. The garden lovers of the neighborhood visiting this unusual sight felt that this was the most beautiful display of floraculture ever seen in Sandy Spring.

p. 47 - Mary Snowden Warfield was my friend and the friendship strengthened and deepened with the years. As a homemaker, a mother, and a friend she lived a life so fully ripe in good deeds, she must have been tenderly gathered into the great Garner House of the Lord when on December 31 [1932], with the dying year, she passed into the Great Beyond. She lied in the family lot in Oak Grove Cemetery at Glenwood, Maryland.

p. 84 - The obituary for Miriam Snowden Lampton is tucked into the pages here, about October 1935. Although the article contains no date of death, I believe that she died in November 1950. She was married to Samuel P. Thomas and widowed before she wed James H. Lampton. The text of the notice is as follows:

Miriam Lampton Buried Saturday. Burial services were held Saturday for Mrs. Miriam Snowden Lampton, of Ashton and Washington, D.C., at the Friends Meeting House, Sandy Spring. A native of Montgomery County, Mrs. Lampton was employed by the Atomic Energy Commission in Washington. She was the daughter of the late Mr. and Mrs. Francis Snowden, of Ashton. Death came at the Sibley hospital in Washington last week, following a brief illness, brought on by a severe brain hemorrhage. Mrs. Lampton is survived by her two sons, Evan S. Thomas, of Seattle, Washington, and Edward P. Thomas, Wheaton. She is also survied by two sisters, Mrs. Reuben Brigham [Marjorie], of Ashton, and Mrs. Louis T. Bussler [Anna], also of Ashton, and a brother, Edward Snowden of Sandy Spring.

p. 106-7 - Francis Snowden was born at "Avondale" near Laurel, Maryland, March 19, 1859. His grandmother, Elizabeth Warfield Snowden, tiring of so large an establishment as "Montepelier" [sic] divided her possessions among her six sons and six daughters reserving five hundred acres of the manor upon which she built a brick house and asked her son Nicholas to live with her. He was to inherit it at her death. In 1850 he took his bride Henrietta Stabler there. When the Civil War was declared, Captain [sic] Nicholas Snowden and his militia company joined the Confederate ranks, providing their own horses and uniforms. He lost his life in an engagement at Harrisonburg, Virginia, June 6, 1862. Three years later his mother died and Henrietta Snowden returned to her birthplace, Sandy Spring, to occupy, with her five children "Ingleside" a house her father Wm. Henry Stabler built for her and there Francis was reared.

He married Fannie Brooke [Frances] Stabler May 18, 1886 in Sandy Spring Meeting House. They went to "Ingleside" to live with his mother where their four daughters and one son were born. There they lived for a little over fifty years. He passed away on September 11, 1936, and was laid to rest at Sandy Spring. (E.T.S.)

p. 137 - E. Clifton Thomas bought a tract of woodland adjoining Ashton from Fanny B. Snowden [1937-8].

p. 148-9 - Nov. 12th [1938]. Arthur A. Brigham, aged 82 years, died in Lakeland, Florida, where he had gone to spend the winter; his remains were interred a few days later in Woodside Cemetery. Mr. Brigham was a Past Master of Massachusetts State Grange. For a time he was Professor of Agriculture at the Imperial College of Agriculture at Sapporo, Japan. Later he received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy at Goettingen, Germany. He then occupied the position of Professor of Agriculture at the Experiment State of Rhode Island. He went from there to Ithaca, New York, where he became general manager of the Cornell Incubator Co. he then moved his family to South Dakota where he became the organizer and first Principal of the South Dakota School of Agriculture. Mr. Brigham was largely responsible for the establishment of the Grange in Rhode Island and was instrumental in the formation of two in Florida.

p. 151 - Dec. 28th [1938]--David Lewis Brigham, son of Reuben and Marjorie Brigham and Gladys Beall, daughter of Forest and the late Flora Dill Beall were married in Rockville. The young people have gone to live in Des Moines, Iowa, where David has a position.

p. 181 - On June 7th [1940], the Brigham children gave Reuben and Marjorie a reception in honor of their 25th anniversary.

p. 194 - [April 1941] About this time Reuben and Marjorie Brigham returned from an extensive trip to Mexico and the South.

p. 198-9 - [August 1941] Through Reuben Brigham, it seems the Agricultural Dept. has become interested in the Sandy Spring Community as an advanced social and agricultural section; so for several months they have been preparing an educational film based on our past history and the efforts of the three farmers' clubs and especially the Farmers' Convention from which so much of our advancement in agriculture has emanated. They have taken shots on farms at Rockland, Plainfield, Willow Grove, The Highlands, Oakley, The Briars and perhaps some others along with some of the old Meeting House and Community House where the first Farmers Convention was held over seventy years ago. When completed and rounded out it ought to make a very creditable showing of the records and accomplishments of Sandy Spring farmers.

p. 205 - Augustus Stabler was born at Roslyn, near Brighton August 25th, 1858. As a young man he took courses at Johns Hopkins University and studied medicine at Howard University. On September 18th, 1884 he married Helen Snowden and went to live in Lawrence, Mass. where he practiced medicine. In Sept. 1888, he returned to Roslyn to live, bringing his wife and two children, Isabel and Austin. He practiced medicine and farmed until the summer of 1911, where he entered the service of the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture. In 1915 he went to Fairfax County, Va. where he operated a nursery with his son Henry. He died March 27th [1942] and is survived by five children, Isabel S. Moore, Sydney Snowden, Henry, Nicholas Snowden and N. Graham Stabler. Interment was at Woodside. (E.H.L.)

p. 207-8 - Fannie B. Snowden and daughter Elsie again spent the winter [1941-2] at the home of her daughter and son-in-law Louis and Anna Bussler at Ashton.

p. 210 - I feel it is fitting that we should record here the names of our neighborhood boys who joined one or another branch of our Nation's services: Francis Brigham... [1941-2]

p. 224 - Frances Brooke Snowden, daughter of John and Alice Bentley Stabler, was born Oct. 15th, 1860 at "Oreola" near Brookeville, Md. She received her education in the schools of Philadelphia. Returning to Sandy Spring she made her home at "Harewood" with her cousins Arthur and Anna Stabler, and from there was married May 18th, 1886, to Francis Snowden. As a bride, she went to Ingleside where she lived until her death on march 25th, 1943, having survived her husband by over five years. She faithfully performed the duties of the busy wife and helpmate and gave the loving care of a mother to their five children. The latter years of her life were spent as a partial invalid. She was always cheerful and uncomplaining, an outstanding example to all who knew her. (M.S.M.)

p. 252 - The following is a list of the Community young men that are now serving their country in one or another branch of the armed forces. These are the boys and men that went in during the year [1943-4] or who were inadvertently missed from last year's record: ...Francis Snowden...David Brigham...Francis Brigham...

p. 257-8 - On July 18th [1944] Marjorie Amber, daughter of Reuben and Marjorie S. Brigham was married to Staff Sgt. Robert Whittley Miller, son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert W. Miller of Silver Spring, Maryland. Later, Sgt. Miller was stationed at Ascension Island with the weather division of the Army Air Corps and Marjorie went to Camp Swift for basic training in the Army Nursing Corps as a 2nd Lieutenant. During July the Fifth War Loan was largely oversubscribed by the Sandy Spring section.

p. 260 - On Aug. 28th [1944] a telegram was received by Louis T. Bussler from the War Department bearing the sad news that his nephew Paul Bussler had been killed in action in France on Aug. 11th.

p. 262 - Oct 21st [1944] Virginia, daughter of Edward and Nellie Kelley Snowden was married to Mr. Rudolph Bouquet, son of Mr. and Mrs. G.P. Bouquet of Houma, La.

p. 271 - A list of Sherwood High School graduates discloses the fact that during the past year [1944-5] the following have entered the service of their country:...Marjorie Brigham Miller.

p. 278 - About this time [Sept. 1945] Marjorie Brigham Miller went to the Pacific Coast in her capacity as an Army nurse; she sailed from New York by way of the Panama Canal.

p. 279 - Elsie Brooke Snowden passed away Dec. 21st [1945] after a brief illness at Garfield Hospital in Washington. The daughter of Francis and Frances Brooke Snowden, she was born at Ingleside March 4th, 1887. After training at the Corcoran Art School in Washington and the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia, she twice traveled abroad on scholarships from the Philadelphia Academy. She received recognition in the United States and Europe for her landscape and portrait paintings, and the Corcoran School honored her with its Annual Gold Medal. Interment was in the Friends Meeting House grounds at Sandy Spring. (E.T.S.)

p. 301 - On Dec. 6th [1946] Reuben Brigham died suddenly on a trip to the midwest where he had gone in his capacity as an extension worker in the Agriculture Department. This huge, somewhat gaunt, somewhat Lincolnesque fellow, who lumbered along like an old fashioned farm wagon, was biological mass of electronically fortified atoms. Born in Marlboro, Mass. in 1887, he grew up all over the world, wherever his father taught agriculture. In 1908 he graduated from the University of Maryland and spent the next five years farming in this state.

In 1913 he turned up as secretary and general assistant to Pres. Harry J. Patterson of the University of Maryland. Two years later he became Maryland's extension editor and also assumed charge of boys 4-H Club work. In 1917 he entered USDA to develop visual and editorial materials for extension work. He himself developed into a human institution. But all that doesn't say it. He was more than a man. He was a force. Warm, human, friendly, dynamic, as earthy as his pure farmer name, he was known all over the nation where many times he seemed to be the Department of Agriculture personified. No place was too small, no individual too inconsequential for him. He passed none by. Indefatigable, boundless in energy, incredible in production, outstanding career employee, Nature's own nobleman, a product of the soil--is interests never once flagged--until Dec. 6th when Reuben Brigham took off for more boundless horizons where his restless mind will find many unfinished tasks. (From USDA.)

p. 308 - On Friday, Feb. 7 [1947], a "Talent Show" was presented in the [Sherwood] auditorium. Barbara Woodward won first prize with a ballet dance, Dolores Beall, who sang and accompanied herself on the piano won second prize and the Heil sisters were third when they harmonized "Ol' Buttermilk Skies."

p. 308-9 - Among the transfers of property during the year [1946-7]... Robert W. and Margery [sic] Brigham Miller built and moved into a house on a portion of the Brigham property...

June 1971

It was just a short article in a promotion booklet. I took time to see it had been written in, for and about conditions in another country. Nevertheless, I could hum the opening lines:

"Everybody's talkin' at me
Don't hear a word they're sayin',
Only the echoes of my mind."

The message kept ringing as I walked alone on the streets of the Capital City of the greatest nation on earth.

These words were from the them song of the film Midnight Cowboy telling of a lonely young man in a big city. The small town boy had lost his ability to communicate and thereby the essential ingredient to keeping one spiritually alive. To me they asked what happened? Why do we experience such uncertainty? What is there for us to hold to? What gives life direction? Who sets the pace? Who leads? Why make the effort? Who botched up what? Why am I urged to straighten out some of the mess?

Several of my friends had a vital discussion over a simple lunch. Can't you hear the reaction? What's the use of writing a column, or even a letter? People don't take time to read anymore. A glance through the newspaper and never a good book!

We are in a great rush to nowhere and we have the means to pay for things to be done for us. Why fight it?

These thoughts don't help when you are looking for the right way to communicate something you want to say or that you hope folks will want to hear and relate to.

Then came the bold. YOU ARE PART AND PARCEL OF THE PILL GENERATION. It all began with that aspirin your mother gave you years ago. Certainly your kids have known nothing else. Every shape and color; in fancy containers and plain; but always handy.

True, it all began with mom. She tranquilized by reading stories children liked to hear, reciting poetry by the hour and re-telling those "hand-me-downs" from previous generations. All were designed to relate to the peace of mind and the education of the upcoming generation.

We were supposed to be a little poor, maybe a little hungry, clothes a little worn and torn, hands grubby on occasion, and discouragement part of a regular diet.

If treatment was needed, there was a home remedy--like lemon, sugar and kerosene for coughing spells; iodine that stung for cuts and scratches; mustard plaster for congestion; argerol and ipicac [ipecac] (can't spell 'em but sure can taste 'em); and then the spring "line up kids and we'll clean out the winter"--each in turn gulped a tablespoon of castor oil.

What happened to the Sunday visits? The picnic trips with the whole family? Are there still places to go and things to do--as a family? Do we need a pill to escape or to relax? Do we need another to sharpen the intellect, to reassure, to give courage? Whey do I need to be confused to boost my morale and pull me out of a depression? My old Sunday School teacher used to say, "Don't count sheep; talk to the Shepherd." Sometimes that worked.

So many are worried. Things are already distorted and we either don't know how to face our times or we don't want to. It's so easy to pick up the many-sided safety valve "The devil made me do it." There's a pill for everything and we are the generation of pills.

It's tough to relate when the terms are over your head and the kids see you and your limited exposure as the root of the problem. To you a trip is travel, a pot belongs under a bed, and hooked is something mom did to make a rug.

The youngsters can't relate to the hydraulic ram, the wooden water tank, a stopped overflow and water from the attic to the basement with plaster falling behind. Coal oil lamps and candles, chunk stoves and feather ticks, soap stones and crocks, three point two and Goose Goslin, all need explaining.

So they come back with kicks and distortions, pot and love-in, beautiful and Hotline, grass and hard rock music, Mary Jane and free love.

Maybe we need to find the time to study our vocabulary. We who are older have made the journey and we know. Those who are younger will soon be the ones who can recount the experience and just hope the even younger generation will not go quite as far and fast as they did. But they know they will!

Somehow, I don't mind telling you about a 19 year old boy and his dad. They related and understood, although the language was a shade different. The young fellow came down to breakfast on Sunday morning. He was greeted with "Son, you turned in mighty late last night." There was a ready explanation for the 2:00 a.m. arrival. "Don't you see, Dad, the ole Model-A froze up and she boiled over. I took the radiator cap off to see what happened and it blew off in the big snow drift over on the middle pike. I looked and looked but never did find it again."

The response was unexpected. "Yes, Son. Well some years ago your Mother and I were courting. We had old Nancy to the buggy and came around past Highland and over Mink Hollow Road. On the way the lap robe bounced out of the back of the buggy, and it took up tow hours to locate that darn thing."

Sometimes there are older people who have a story to tell. I remember the same 19 year old boy who managed to get pifilated on 3.2 beer when he was two years below the legal age limit for purchase and consumption.

I have seen parents who must cap a difficult and frustrating week with "just a few" to put the memories away for a spell. Then they wonder what makes a kid seek escape from a hard and frustrating week at school with a slightly different approach.

There is a role for recreation in our society. Simple things like walks in the woods, picnics and croquet. Maybe we can read a little to relax. When did you learn you last poem or listen to the birds sing early in the morning.

There is a free society and we do have a free life. There is even freedom to self-destruct if we don't find the way to relate and communicate and love in the broadest sense.

Don't look for answers in terms of economic or social levels. Race and religion are both involved and concerned, nor have they found all the answers in the image of man or the hope of faith. When I was a youth I asked for guidance. My college professor said, "You are often guilty by association." From my mother came, "A man is known by the company he keeps." Dad got right to the point, "If you lie down with dogs, you will get up with fleas."

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

May 1971

It was a conference of sorts...In fact, it was a big meeting under the auspices of the President's Committee for the Employment of the Handicapped. People came from all over the world, for disability and rehabilitation cannot be walled in for only a few to endure or enjoy.

Recreation entered in as wheelchair athletes demonstrated the fruits of competition and the therapy of physical activity. Fertile minds exposed ingenious devices and a grim determination to achieve in spite of...The strength, desire and grit of the real man was never better demonstrated. You can do so much with so little. We who have so much with which to meet life may indeed feel shame.

Somehow you are convinced recreation is something you must earn. And what was happening on the streets outside? Not all of the handicaps and disabilities were in the hotel. Not all of the mental capacity of the city was assembled on the concourse level. Much was on the streets of our Capitol. Vets against the War, controversy about sleeping in a national park, women talking about liberation for the ladies, youngsters saying that the establishment failed to recognize the grey area where truth really lies, and the obvious contrasts...

There are the beards, the mutton chops, the blue jeans, sandals, bare feet, thongs, micro-mini skirts and maxi coats on the same frame, and an unmistakable gleam in a number of old eyes. Who is right and who is wrong? Who's old fashioned and who just plain nuts?

They are sleeping in the park tonight. The supreme judicial body of our greatest country on the globe says they cannot. But, they are and they did and I guess they will. Some are physically handicapped. They left a part of themselves overseas. They were in the battle. They have a right to speak. I'm talking about the Vets. There are times when I'm proud to be identified as one of them; and then there are times when I want to join the kids who ask some of the authorities to justify all of it. My response about a different war and purpose has a hollow ring. I want a real answer for it all.

These amputees and the paraplegics who zip about and do things. These guys who complain so little and smile so much. I carry a big torch for those who find one of the greatest challenges in life is working with the handicapped.

The flag must have been flying from my pole as I went to lunch with three friends - all handicapped. One had to take the elevator because crutches don't work on escalators. Another has a victory over cancer and calls himself one of those successful colostomies. The third had just received the golden word and his handicap was unemployment.

Our placemat was "The Story of Our Flag." In the center was the Star Spangled Banner of Fort McHenry fame. On the flanks were such colorful reminders of our heritage as the Viking Flag, Cross of St. George, Royal Standard of Spain, French Fleur-de-Leis, British Union, Bunker Hill, Rattlesnake, Alamo, Confederate, Betsy Ross Flag, and more...

In bold letters the caption spoke - "I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

I kept my thoughts to myself, but I thought! Yes, we are a long way from home sometimes. And we are a long way from base, and truth, and right, and giving, and dedication, and devotion, and faith, and trust, and charity, and love. We must be worthy of our keep and earn what we enjoy. Maybe recreation means re-Creation.

Congressman Jack Marsh of Virginia shared a situation report with me some months ago. I drew on this as I ate with my friends who have suffered, with men who had known war, and with the symbol of our great America adding nourishment. Why are we there? Why here? Who has a right to question? Was it earned? Will it be?

The emerging nation in question has a population of about two and one-half million spread along a coastline of about twelve hundred miles. Forests are perilous due to hostility of indigenous natives.

Loyalty to the home government is unquestioned but for the past few years, civilian unrest has been growing due to economic exploitation of local products and markets.

Continued petitions by the populace for a revision of policy have been rebuffed. This has led to outbreaks of armed conflict against the regular troops throughout the territory. The dominant nation is a foremost world power. Their army, although below wartime strength, nevertheless, is substantial in size.

There is no political cohesion or political stability. Privately, many influential supporters of the insurgency are pessimistic of success and some blandly forecast defeat, at best hoping for some compromise which more radical leaders are fast making impossible.

Knowledgeable foreign observers predict a quick, crushing military defeat, with severe penalties to Rebel leaders as an example to others harboring aspirations of Independence.

THE TIME -- 1775. THE PLACE -- America.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

April 1971

Life is what we work for, talk about, and hold tight to. Often the thread is thin and sometimes there is a regeneration. Spring does follow the dead of winter. We breathe deeply of the fresh breezes and express pleasure in being alive. We look for the first swelling buds and the initial spikes of green forcing their way between the frosty layers of earth. Yes, it is spring and life leaves that dormant state and flows fully again.

The old walnut was dead. At least is was very far gone, and there was no hope of recovery. It stood at one corner of the church. As if showing that even a tree cared about such things, it leaned toward the sanctuary. The trustees who know about such things felt the seventy-five year vigil had been sufficient. The patriarch must come down.

Then came the bulldozer to push out the stump and do the grading. Some sleeping grubs and a few sluggish fishing worms were turned up. They worked their way back into the earth, to shelter, protection, and survival. Even the stump of the tree fought to hang on, preferring to rot rather than be rudely dislodged.

My week had been like this. The economy was tight both from a personal and business standpoint. I had listened to someone say austerity a dozen times. He wanted me to know the sky was falling, and I had best shore up the dike if a part of my existence was to continue. I thought of this as I cut that walnut.

For a couple years my heart and effort has gone into a federation of associations know as the League. Many have tried to breathe life and strength into LFRA. They have pleaded with the larger members who do not need the strength of numbers to reap benefits to lend a hand for the lift they can give the smaller organizations. To the lesser agency associations, they have said the banding together gives strength and purchasing power. Use the Buyer's Guide for discount buying and as you save for yourself you will strengthen the League.

If you are planning a trip, make your travel arrangements through an LFRA contact. This will save you money and help the League do more for its members. Read the Recreation Register and see that others in your association receive a copy. They are still free.

My mind had wandered, and I returned to my tree. The stump and one of the larger sections of trunk were side by side. I knelt to view the ants searching for retreat. There it was!

At the edge of the more than 75 rings...the wood, each denoting a year of life, there was a half inch of new and green growth. The tree was as dead as dead could be. No doubt about it.

But to the trained eye, that tree fought to the bitter end. When it was 98 percent destroyed there was still the will to struggle and fight on. One of the basics is survival, and life is what life is all about.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Origins of Troop 264

This history was written by David L. Brigham, the "First Scout" of Boy Scout Troop #264, and it appears on the Troop's homepage:

Troop 264 had its start from a summer 4-H State Camp near Blacksburg, Virginia. Ernest Thompson Seton, the greatest of nature writers including Wild Animals I Have Known, was a special invited guest. His role was to tell Indian stories and experiences at the campfires. He brought his friend Dan Beard, who had set the stage for the Boy Scout movement in the United States. My Dad, Reuben Brigham, was the U.S. Director of Information for the Agricultural Extension Service and had arranged for Thompson to participate. This was the early summer of 1927.

The inspiration of visits with these two youth and nature leaders during the idle daytime hours resulted in long talks about the Scouting program and all it provided young men age twelve and above. As a result, Brigham returned to his American Legion Post in Sandy Spring and asked his fellow veterans of World War I to help him set up a Troop for this community. They agreed, providing he would be Scoutmaster. The Washington Council sent professionals to assist from their very small staff. By fall, a Troop with 12 to 15 boys was in place. Dad was Scoutmaster, I was a Tenderfoot Acting Patrol Leader, and the Troop with a Sandy Spring address was #130.

There were Montgomery County Camporees, summer journeys to Camp Roosevelt on the Chesapeake Bay, fourteen mile hikes, fifty yard swims upstream in the Patuxent, wet wood and only two matches, first aid, cold nights, wet bodies, tests, games, and pledges (which I still remember). We sang Clemantine and went on Snipe hunts, climbed hills and slid down banks, wore shorts most the year and britches once in a while.

The troop lost the original number when several years of inactivity occurred. Charlie Hines served first as Assistant Scoutmaster. John Bancroft later served for several years. Original Scouts who come quickly to mind include Tom Hallowell, Francis Brigham, Fairman and Billy Fussell and Malcolm Thomas. Dick and Johnny Thomas had had other Scouting experience and for a period acted as Senior Scouts and advisors for us.

Norman Price Post #68 of the American Legion has been the sponsor of a Boy Scout Troop for nearly sixty years and during most of that period the present Troop 264 is in the record. It is a matter of mutual satisfaction when man and boy, Scout and Scouter, organization and organization, can work together for God and Country in a community of rich heritage and strong faith.

David L. Brigham

March 1971

One of the young folks reads this column. I know, for it was he who placed me squarely behind the eight ball with, "Dad, it was interesting, but what did it have to do with the League?"

This was a time to talk about life, the uncertainty of each undertaking, the personalities involved in most organizations, the goals and dreams of officers and committees, and the relationship of time, talent and efforts of individuals. The League is a great example. So many have worked so hard and done so much, yet the struggle always lies ahead.

The problems are compounded with growth. There is more and more to absorb, understand, and solve. The first bruises, cuts, and frustrations pile on. Suddenly, you find that not everything objectionable is dissipated by someone patting you on the head or kissing where it hurts. Now that you are somebody, you have problems and at least you must share in their solution.

Most are aware of the urgent inner call to push forward to the next plateau. Never are we quite satisfied or secure.

So it has been for this association of some 150,000 federal employees, many of whom do not know a thing about the League or its function. They only hear indirectly that it might lend a big hand if you are planning a trip or wanting to buy something at a discount. Who really relates to the other 54 agencies and their employees? We have our own niche and that's enough for anyone to chew.

Like the young man with all the dreams and ambitions, the League has grown and stumbled. It has plunged forward, made great strides, fallen and gotten up to try again. The potential is always the incentive. That many people and that many agencies and a central interest and dedication--Think of the possibilities if that many spoke with one voice. Yes, mountains could be moved. Hope springs with some real justification.

The League is not at that point yet, but our little pattern of a life example must take a man into those years he calls the prime of life. He has learned that the late teenager who was ready to save the world at 18, is now 30 and can't save fifty cents.

The mortgage payments and the rent are always due; the grocery costs mount; the car needs unexpected repairs; there must be insurance in case something happens to the head of the household...

We want the best for each one and can't always convince each component that we are doing the best we can, have stretched the resources and income to the best advantage, and next year we will have the time and the money to take that long anticipated trip with the entire family. Yes, the pot is at the end of the rainbow.

If the struggle of life for an individual never ends as long as there is life, what of an organization that is in effect a loose federation with many of the components more interested in the immediate backyard of the own R&W?

Such thoughts took me back to boyhood. Old Charlie Scott sat on an oak stump. He had been laying a flagstone walk around our house, and he was both hot and tired. A young chap sat at his feet to show him the toad frog which had hopped out from under the porch.

Gently he lifted the toad into the cup of a powerful, calloused hand. Then he explained the superstition that warts would come off the toad and onto the hand of the little boy who picked him up. No, not on a big, tough, black hand. After all, warts are white. That's what he said anyway.

I didn't believe Charlie, and I told him so... But I did watch my hands for a couple of weeks. And I do go out the same door I came in when I'm visiting someone, and don't want to break a friendship. Charlie said I should do that.

Maybe some of you will understand that I do not believe any of this stuff about being born under a certain sign that makes me jovial, and bright and capable and understanding and happy and willing and... I just glance at the Farmer's Almanac to find out when the bad storms are coming. I don't set any store by what it says.

I don't think there is anything to Friday the 13th, but I was in a banzai attack in World War II on April 13th, a Friday. I had an accident on such a day and was in the middle of a severe wind storm on another...and in the center of a violent confrontation between two strong arm groups of men on a Friday the 13th. I don't believe in such things.

On my desk is a round, black object. It has a white circle with a black eight in the circle. They call it an eight ball. If you shake it soundly and ask a question it give an answer. I don't really believe the things it indicates... Or do I?...

I asked about the prospects for the League of Federal Recreation Associations in 1971 and turned up the window in the bottom of the eight ball. There seemed to be an eye looking back at me. Then, an eyelid opened and closed a couple of times (I saw the eyelashes). Then suddenly it was there. The answer which I must believe flashed forth...OUTLOOK GOOD.

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

January/February 1971

There is always a gate. Sometimes it is swinging in, and at other times, swinging out. For every gate there is an experience. There are people to relate to the gate whether it be of wood, metal, or stone.

Some gates are ornate, and others brightly painted. Some are rusty, creaking, and only half on an abandoned post. Always the gate is engaged in a struggle against the elements created by both nature and man.

At the gate there are always hopes, memories, ambitions, and experiences. Of all the creations, these vital ingredients have been reserved for man alone. Both the generosity and the responsibility of these gifts are overwhelming. Thankfully, there is a balance which causes the gate to swing in one direction with pressure, and in another with pull.

As we reach into the tomorrow of yet another year, we must close our gate on some great events which are now history. All of us have our own reflection as we see an old year out and anticipate the new. I trust that you will have your own parade of thoughts as I relate my own gate experiences.

In the past year a gate was opened for a member of our family. This was a farewell gate for one who had seen nearly 82 years as a treasured component of our inner circle. She was the one who had laughed with such understanding when a small boy on a very black night was encouraged to set a new record for the 100 yard dash. The route was from the barn to the back porch and was initiated by the groan of a rusty hinge supporting a sagging gate.

She it was who often summed up the ambition of this youth with the impossible goal, "He's all too often reaching for the moon." She lived long enough to hear her little granddaughter say, "I used to think Daddy was so tall he could walk up on a stepladder and touch the sky." In the time of that grandmother, other young Americans opened the impossible gate--reached the moon and walked upon it. It couldn't be done and yet is was...in 1970.

Hardly had that departing latch dropped before another was being lifted to accommodate someone coming in our gate. For those who are interested, there is a grandson. We have our miracle and he picked my birthday to enter the gate.

Undoubtedly, gates are important, and for some 17 years I sat on a great campus where I could watch the arrival of young men and women as they walked between the great brick posts and under the identifying ironwork. For many this was a giant step which would be appreciated and assimilated.

The bricks and mortar were there, the knowledge of generations waited in the library, and many fertile minds were ready to share the largest word in research and discovery. Like the structure of bricks and the mortar, knowledge is built on fact and finding, a step at a time.

Each generation adds a segment to the great mosaic of life. All too often there are those who exit through the gate after a short struggle, for the campus hills offer a challenge. Others see the green grass which borders the pathway lading to the great outside and depart. For some, it will remain green, but for most, it will lose its vigor as the distance from the gate increases.

Fortunately, there are many who have the means, the stamina, and the desire to complete the experience and enjoy not only the climax parade before family and friends, but also the fruits of effort.

It is difficult for us to look at the interesting experience we call life without realizing that each generation and each year goes beyond that which preceded it. Somehow the combination of the certainty of yesterday gives the hope that is required for tomorrow.

Indeed the story is an old one, but deeply significant...So many have not heard it yet...The young man left home and walked through the gate to seek his fortune in his own way. For a time those who had contributed most to his preparation were forgotten and ignored.

The years passed and an aging mother and father received a letter. Briefly it stated, "I will be on the train next Wednesday. If I am welcome at home, after the years of heartache and neglect I have caused, please hang a white cloth on the cherry tree at the edge of town. If there is no cloth, I will know I am not welcome."

When the train reached the town limits, a passenger viewed an old tree completely covered with bed sheets.

It has been good to re-live old days, but it means even more to be a part of the preparation for an unexplored tomorrow. I think I'll spend a few moments with the thoughts of the English school teacher in India.

She faced an uncertain road, and her answer may well have a message for the League, for the leadership, for 150,000 members representing 58 federal agencies and for you and for me...

"And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: 'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.' And he replied, 'Go out into the darkness and put thy hand in the hand of God. That shall be to you better than a light and safer than a known way.'"

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

November 1970

There is a nail at the top of the basement steps. It's just like the old one in the house across the field. This is where my newer "handy cap" hangs.

Early morning in an interesting time. In the mad scramble of jumbled thoughts as one attempts to find that pin point of focus for the activities of the day, there come memories, ambitions, frustrations and concerns. There is family, work, Thanksgiving, welfare, recreation, income vs. out-go, health, memory and hats.

How can you separate one from the other and make your day and your reason for being make sense. Like the Alice of Wonderland you are in a maze of mirrors, trying to find the looking glass to walk through, and knowing that unlike the Mad Hatter you will not be able to balance all of the shapes and styles upon your whirling mind at once.

So, to the nail and the cap. The dogs knew the signal of a bolt sliding in the lock and woke up the neighbors in anticipation of a run in the woods.

The collies led the way in a joyful dash. They had been to the sassafras stump before and were content to lie quietly for the moments the fellow wearing the handy cap seemed to relish as he sat. This morning there was a dew covered spider web and the owner worked back and forth to leave a perfect lacework pattern. The handiwork was perfection and much like others I had seen before. How do they know to follow a path similar to those who have deposited their thread in like fashion over so many years? Nature has such a way of balancing things out...maybe we'd better try to straighten out our own disorganized thinking.

There are bonnets and caps and hats. Some fit and are attractive while others are better relegated to the foot of the basement steps or the corner of the attic.

For years the urge to try on hats has overwhelmed me. There is always a laugh in a hat when it is deposited upon the wrong head.

For a period the LFRA hat was my vocation. It is still one of my strong interests and hopes. The first birthday of the Recreation Register is a happy occasion for me and I join the 75,000 readers of our 140,000 membership in a salute. The long struggle is not over but the vital communication link is alive and rendering great service. For this we can all be thankful.

And on to another hat... This one is the Committee for the Handicapped, People-to-People... This is a mighty comfortable fit. Those who have such a variety of problems make life so worthwhile for all of us. This was the fleeting thought on that sassafras stump and I almost left it there to complete my walk.

Then the colorful leaves and pine needles sifting down told me it was fall...November...the month of Thanksgiving... We gather the family together then...all of us...past and present...the well and strong, the sick and lame, the blind and deaf, the young and the old, the paralyzed and the voiceless... All of us... And we each have a pad and pencil to go with a ten minute time limit. We write down those things for which we are thankful.

This Thanksgiving we are thankful for those who care about the Recreation and Welfare of others. That there is a League and a union of the employee associations. Then we are thankful for those around us who give so much inspiration and make out problems seem so small. I am thankful for the hat of service to the disabled that so many wear, even for just the moment of helping someone up the stairs or across the street.

Before me is the note from the paraplegic who says, "Each person is an individual and we do not sit in our wheelchairs like so many blobs, smiling incessantly...I am not always patient and cheerful...I criticize, I knock, I get mad and swear, I seldom have time to smile..."

I'm wondering how many of us would trade our lives for the life of any other individual we know. Remember, you would be trading all of the life, not part of yours for part of his. Not every lid that fits another man's kettle will go on yours.

All of a sudden the sun is getting brighter; there is no insect in the web and the spider is resting. This is a good time to be saying thanks to --

The God that gave me eyes that I might see,
And ears that I might hear,
A voice that I might tell to all
His story far and near.
To me He gave a heart too full
To pass my brother by,
Two legs, two feet, two arms and hands
To use to serve my fellow man.
A mind, a looking back, a soul set free
Thank God! He gave these gifts to me.
So I my duties must not shirk
For God made man to do His holy work.
The young, the lame, the old and gray,
The boys and girls who cannot play
Extend to us their searching hands.
To know the touch of one who truly understands.
Empathy, compassion we ask of Thee,
To help us do and see
The tasks which Thou hast given
That we might know the taste of Heaven.

I guess I better put my cap back on and go now. It's funny...after a few minutes on the Thanksgiving stump the "handy cap" really feels good when you are relating life to handicapped. I am thankful for my love of hats!

David L. Brigham
Executive Director

Profiles of Reuben Brigham

From the website of the Association for Communication Excellence in Agriculture, Natural Resources, and Life and Human Sciences:

The Reuben Brigham Award is offered in memory of Reuben Brigham (1887-1946), a native of Marlboro, Mass., and graduate of the University of Maryland. He served as an extension editor and 4-H Club agent in Maryland and was called to the Federal Extension Service office in 1917 to develop an editorial and visual aids service for extension editors. Brigham traveled the nation, conferring with editors and directors, and helped states develop their own editorial offices as separate units.

He organized the American Association of Agricultural College Editors and served as its president, secretary and treasurer. He established the Extension Service Review in 1939 and participated in the Farm and Home Hour of the National Broadcasting Company. During the Depression, he helped develop action agencies of the Agricultural Adjustment Administration. As head of a regional section of the AAA information office, he ensured that extension staffs were involved in that organization’s information plans. He later was appointed assistant director of the Federal Extension Service and was associated with extension directors, the land-grant college association and policy-making committees of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Brigham died in Chicago while attending a meeting at the National 4-H Club Congress.

The Reuben Brigham Award, established in 1947, is reserved for a communicator, including a public relations or advertising professional, who has made a a major contribution in the field of agriculture, natural resources, or life and human sciences at the regional, national or international level. Active and retired members of ACE, a land-grant college or university staff, or USDA staffs are not eligible for the award. (Click for a list of past winners.)

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A profile from the ACE retirees website:

Reuben Brigham. President 1924-25. U. S. Department of Agriculture

Reuben Brigham was born Dec. 13, 1887 in Marlboro, Mass. He was the son of a farmer and professor of agriculture. He graduated from the Maryland Agricultural College (later the University of Maryland) in 1908. For the next five years he operated a farm in Maryland, then returned to the university in 1913 to serve as secretary of Alumni Affairs to the university president. When the Smith-Lever Act established the extension service later that year, he joined the Maryland College of Agriculture staff where he was their first extension editor and 4-H club agent.

In 1917 he joined the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s extension service in Washington, D.C. to develop an editorial and visual-aids service for extension editors. He also started the Extension Service Review magazine in 1930.

During the depression years of the 1930s, he joined the Agricultural Adjustment Administration (AAA) where he was in charge of a regional section of the “Triple A” information office. In this position, he “saw to it that the college editors of the nation were used in all information plans and that the local state extension staff, including the editor, was not by-passed. . ..” He later returned to the extension service and was named assistant director.

He died unexpectedly Dec. 6, 1946 while attending the National 4-H Club Congress in Chicago—one week short of his 59th birthday. Following Reuben Brigham’s death, Past President Frank Jeter (North Carolina) said, “Brigham has as much to do with the successful formation and organization of the American Association of Agricultural College Editors as any other one single person.” Since 1947 AAACE/ACE has given the annual Reuben Brigham Award to honor the contributions in agricultural, home economics, and rural communication of a person outside its membership—the organization’s highest award.

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And finally the culmination of a recent research project by Scout Jim Bikel titled "Reuben Brigham: Legend Unveiled," dated March 21, 2009, about the founder and first scoutmaster of Boy Scout Troop #264. He presented his project to the 10th annual Montgomery County gathering for National History Day. I had the pleasure of meeting Jim Bikel--a very nice young man--and I think he did a great job here. I have inserted two minor corrections into the text, which appear within brackets and are italicized:

Introduction

As part of a competition for an extracurricular activity known as National History Day, I did a research project on Mr. Reuben Brigham, commonly known to you as the troop’s founder. National History Day is a competition that is similar to a science fair for history. This year, the NHD had a theme of legacy. They recommended that we each pick a person from any period of history to research, and to focus on their lasting impact on the community, nation or world. While others focused on more well-known characters such as John Wilkes Booth, Walter Reed or Dr. Bird, I chose a lesser known character that I knew impacted me. Reuben Brigham, I knew, founded our scout troop in 1927. I knew nothing else about him, and didn’t expect much. Instead, I found he left much more than a scout troop behind. Be aware that I write about only what I was able to find out, and it is likely that some information is missing.

Childhood Years and Early Background

Reuben Brigham was born in Marlboro, Massachusetts, on December 13, 1887. His early years were spent growing up on a farm. His father taught him the farming methods himself, and Reuben also went to many different schools. He grew up not only in America, but in several other nations, including Germany and Japan. Sometime, he moved to the United States again and settled in Ashton, MD. He went to the University of Maryland (known back then as the Maryland Agricultural College), and he then graduated in 1908. After his graduation, he farmed for five years until his life became interesting.

Parcel Post

Ever wonder how that package came to your door? Ever wonder who started the Parcel Post? Farmers in the United States long wanted a government parcel service, due to the high prices that private companies would require. You often had two choices with items. You could pay more than half the worth to ship your products east or you could let them rot while you haul them yourself over the Appalachian Mountains. The reverse was true with getting something. If you needed, say, a Model-T car-to-tractor conversion kit so you could use a gasoline engine instead of a stubborn mule to plow your fields, you would have to pay the evil railroad companies more than twice the value of the kit to ship it to where you could pick it up, or you could take the dangerous route east yourself to get the part, leaving your farm unattended and spending hard-earned cash on gasoline and such. The National Grange, a large nationwide organization that farmers used to unionize and advocate for farmer rights, had turned a blind eye to it. Mr. Brigham, of the Olney Grange, wasn’t about to let a good plan go to waste. (The Olney Grange was a branch of the Maryland Grange, a branch of the National Grange, which was formed as unions won battles in industry while envious farmers still struggled.) By encouraging congressman David J. Lewis to test its soundness in Congress, he managed to get it through. There were many points at which the Honorable David J. Lewis admitted he felt like giving up. He said that through Mr. Brigham’s bottomless enthusiasm, he managed to gain enough support to get the legislation passed. Farmers and city folks nationwide loved it. A farmer now did not have to spend near as much to get a stupid part, so he was able to expand his farm more rapidly, and the customers ended up paying much less due to the significantly lowered shipping costs. The only downfall to this legislation was that the railroad companies were going bankrupt (eventually leading some of them to unite as CSX.) So next time you receive a package at the door, think about how it all started-from that same man who founded our scout troop.

The Agricultural Department

Ever hear about the United States Department of Agriculture? (You know, that government agency that inspects meat, leaving a sticker on it if it looks good enough?) It was originally started to help farmers and ranchers become educated about their actions, work, and sanitation, and to clean up the meat-packing industry scandals. According to the Agricultural Extension Service, he was called to the Department of Agriculture in 1917 to take charge of producing visual and editorial materials. After serving a year in the army, he returned to the agricultural department. He worked in the Agricultural Extension Service, which was created for the purpose of gathering the above stated materials. In the Extension service, he created a magazine which is still published today, known as the Agriculture Extension Service Review. In 1933, he was placed in the Agricultural Adjustment Administration (remember learning about FDR’s New Deal in History Class?). There he developed a regional contact division, which was used as a public relations committee for the AAA and other depression and wartime agencies. (The AAA was later deemed unconstitutional by the Supreme Court.) Another of his extension jobs was being the 4-H Club leader to Maryland, and he eventually became the top figure in the national 4-H Club. The 4-H Club was an organization founded to teach farm youth the basics of farming and how to do it the right way (preventing another Dust Bowl), and to give farm youth a proper education and upbringing. In his work, Mr. Brigham was very dedicated. He would not give the people he needed to contact a telephone call or a proper letter, but instead he would go out there in person and talk and become friendly with the farmers. He was so attached to his work that he died of an ailment when he went out west to contact a few farmers in 1946.

Mr. Brigham and War

In 1918, a year after Reuben joined the Agricultural Department, he joined the army. He fought as one of millions of “doughboys” fighting in WWI for the Allies against the Central Powers. He only fought for a single year, and not too much is known about his actions, most likely because he was no one of high rank. Reuben’s children were all involved in WWII. His son, David Brigham, served in the Pacific, and his other son served in Europe. His daughter became an army nurse. Mr. Brigham understood how the Axis Powers saw the war from their point of view, instead of just the Allied view, having grown up in Japan and Germany himself.

Mr. Brigham and Family

As stated before, Mr. Brigham’s father had dragged Reuben’s childhood all over the world. Mr. Brigham married Marjorie Snowden on June 7, 1915 at Ingleside (Queen Anne's County, MD) [*correction by Barb - Ingleside was the name of Francis Snowden's home located south of Ashton, MD, on what is now Route 650 New Hampshire Avenue]. Mr. and Mrs. Brigham were devout Quakers, and played a role in the Sandy Spring Friends group. As stated before, Reuben had three children. His first son, David Lewis Brigham, was named after Congressman David J. Lewis, a friend to Mr. Brigham. He had a second son, whose name I cannot find [*correction by Barb - Reuben had two more sons named Francis Snowden Brigham and Arthur P. Brigham, both of whom are deceased]. His daughter, born on February 22, 1922, was named after her mother, to become Marjorie Amber Brigham [now Marjorie Brigham Miller]. Marjorie, (the daughter) is still alive. She lives in Vermont, and helped me with my MDHD project. David Brigham married Gladys Beall in Rockville on December 28, 1938. David and Gladys Brigham had a son, who was also named David. This David Brigham, grandson of Reuben Brigham, is the person who has his name on a plaque on the bell structure in front of Sherwood High School. David Brigham Sr. died in 1999, and he had written a memoir about his father for the troop (also posted on the website). Reuben, having died in 1946, is buried on his property in Ashton next to his wife, Marjorie.

Property and House

Mr. Brigham bought his property from Francis Snowden in 1921. He built his house, named Glyndon, and that house still stands. It is visible at 1022 Olney-Sandy Spring Road, Ashton, MD. Our troop used to do our annual primitive there, but due to a problem with the neighbors, we have used the Haviland property as a substitute. (I will not discuss this too much, because I am bound to get it wrong, not knowing all the details.) On his property, he and his wife are buried as previously stated side-by-side. Besides the grave markers, there are different memorials honoring him, one from the American Legion Post #68, (which he helped found after WWI and which is still the sponsor of the troop), another from the University of Maryland Class of ’08 (1908, not 2008), and another from “Friends in Agriculture”.

Brigham and Youth

Mr. Brigham believed in the proper upbringing of rural youth. This is visible through the 4-H clubs he was involved with. David Brigham Senior has already written his brief memoir about the Troop’s history, so I shall not restate that. To access it, follow this link.

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Correspondence from the late 1940's between Reuben "Shorty" Brigham and John William Firor are housed in Duke University Library's collection of Firor's papers, indexed here but not available online. Measuring in at 6'6" tall, this "Shorty" must be our Reuben.